Only Tom had managed to outsmart the marauders. With great care, he'd lofted nets over our Montmorency cherry trees and tied the nets to the trunks. While awaiting his captain's call the previous night, Tom had patiently salvaged the last of the scarlet fruit. Through the back window, I watched the elk quizzically appraise our trees. Nothing there, boys, time to move out.
I crossed to the counter, moved the faxed map showing the location of Eliot's body, and surveyed with a sinking heart the clutter of glasses, plates, and measuring cups. Before Gerald Eliot had revved up his saw, he'd asked me to empty the cabinets on the left side of the window. Then he'd crashed through the window and the right-hand cabinet, and the contents of those shelves had ended up in smithereens.
The next day, Eliot had bounded up my front steps all smiles, sketchy plans for a new kitchen tucked under his arm. He'd claimed he could have my new kitchen done before the first snow. Ha. Although it was always difficult for me to believe that people could so heartlessly try to take advantage, I'd been forced to accept Tom's assessment of constructor sabotage. I'd stonily told Eliot to fix the window; my husband would repair the cabinet. Now my remaining glasses teetered in stacks; the broken cabinet stood on its side in the hallway. How many other people had Eliot tried to cheat this way? And had any other clients wanted to strangle him the way I'd longed to?
I took a steadying breath of the sweet, fresh air pouring through gaps in the dusty plastic. With The Jerk and his violent nature temporarily locked up in jail, I had taken for granted the fact that we could finally relax with our windows open. Or rather, relax with our windows missing. I refilled my espresso machine with water, ground a handful of fragrant coffee beans, and rinsed Tom's bowl of homegrown cherries.
As the water gushed over the fruit, my mind snapped back to the traumas of the last two days. What would happen to Cameron now? Had Cameron murdered Gerald Eliot? What could I do? Interfere and you'll get Cameron, Tom, and yourself into more trouble, my inner voice warned.
I sharpened a knife, started pitting the cherries, then washed my hands and put in a call to Lutheran Hospital to check on Barbara Burr. I was told she could not be disturbed. Next I phoned the sheriff's department to see if they could tell me anything about Cameron. Burr was being processed, I was told. Like liverwurst? I longed to ask.
I energetically mixed the pitted cherries with sugar and cornstarch. I loved the Burrs; both had been extraordinarily kind to Arch when he was eight and I was doing my docent work. Cameron, then president of the county historical society, could talk about Aspen Meadow's history the way some people can croon show tunes. The times I'd had to take Arch with me to the museum, Cameron had kept my son spellbound with stories of local outlaws, ghosts, Indians, and untold, priceless treasure buried in Aspen Meadow. Arch had been rapt. I hadn't been immune either.
I laid the fruit in a buttered pan and thought back to the photos on the Burrs' guest house walls: Cameron I and Barbara with shovels and maps. In the thirties, Cameron had told Arch, Aspen Meadow and Blue Spruce had been aswarm with treasure hunters. A persistent Depression-era rumor held that a stagecoach robber had buried a coffee can chockful of gold pieces in a mine shaft in Aspen Meadow or Blue Spruce. Forget that there was no mining in Aspen Meadow or Blue Spruce; Arch had subsequently insisted we follow a trail that - legend had it - led to the gold at the top of Smythe Peak. We'd dug for hours, to no avail, and our only company had been Steller's jays squawking at us for invading their domain.
I beat butter with sugar for the cobbler topping, and I recalled Arch's wide-eyed plea that we visit a local ranch where longhorn steer were raised. There, contrary to recorded history but according to Cameron Burr, Jesse James and his gang had buried fifty thousand dollars at the foot of a lodgepole pine. The trick was finding the right tree. Jesse James himself had supposedly pointed a knife downward to the treasure, and embedded the weapon in the pine tree's trunk. If he had, both the knife and the fifty thousand were still there, because Arch hadn't found them.
I measured flour with baking powder, remembering I the time Cameron and Barbara had accompanied us on one of the many treasure hunts Cameron had sparked in my too-imaginative son. The Burrs, Arch, and I had crawled through the crumbling Swiss-built inn west of Aspen Meadow where the Bund - Nazis and their sympathizers, posing as bicycling tourists, the story went - had allegedly met during the Second World War. The inn, empty for years and recently renovated as apartments, had given us permission to search the place while the construction crew worked on new plumbing. Alas, to Arch's intense disappointment, we'd uncovered no stash of deutsche marken below swastikas carved - by squatters? Or by frustrated treasure seekers? - on closet floors.
Now, at fourteen, Arch didn't drag me out on treasure hunts anymore. Instead, he listened to pounding rock music, worried intensely about his appearance, and I yearned for Julian to move back. And though he would never admit it, the only thing Arch truly wanted was a girlfriend.
I stirred egg into the cobbler dough and dropped spoonfuls of the thick, golden batter on top of the glistening cherries. No treasure, no girlfriend, and the Burrs in deep trouble. Gerald Eliot dead. And I needed catering business. I slid the cobbler into the oven and contemplated my booking calendar.
This was Tuesday, August nineteenth. Unfortunately, my slimy catering competitor, Craig Litchfield, had so severely cut into my bookings that I had no work until a week from today. And even more unfortunately, that work was unpaid. Tuesday, the twenty-sixth of August, was the date of the rescheduled tasting party at the Homestead. This time, the catering competition for the Merciful Migrations September Soiree would be silent. I would be up against Andre and Craig Litchfield. The Soiree committee included my frequent catering clients Edna Hardcastle and Weezie Harrington, as well as Marla. How had the committee arrived at the decision that they even needed to put the event out for bids? I had no idea.
I loved Andre. I would enjoy working by his side even if he won the competition. Still, I was sure Craig Litchfield had somehow forced the issue of a contest. What I couldn't imagine - and what was troubling me - was the means he would employ to try to win it.
I made another espresso, wished I had one of Julian Teller's indescribably flaky, bittersweet-chocolate filled croissants to go with it, then stared glumly at my calendar. The day after the tasting party was Wednesday, the twenty-seventh of August. That night, I would be doing a birthday dinner party for twenty for Weezie Harrington. Wealthy widows and divorcees always worry that no one will remember their birthdays, so they often give a party for themselves. Weezie was no exception, although she'd had a friend issue the invitations.
I moved my finger across the calendar. My next booking after Weezie's party was Saturday, August thirtieth. That day, Edna Hardcastle's daughter Isabel would finally, finally be married, and I would cater the twice-postponed reception. But two booked events and one tasting party would not be enough. With Tom suspended, and no money coming in, I had to find more work.
I put in a call to Andr‚'s condominium and got the caregiver for Andr‚'s wife, Pru. Pru's handicap made her extremely shy. I had only met her once, as she disliked going out or having people over. Dealing with Pru's condition, plus the cost of her maintenance, had contributed to Andr‚'s concerns after his retirement.
"Yes? What is it?" Chef Happy sounded even more brusque than usual.
I told Andr‚ about discovering Gerald Eliot's body at the Burrs'. I also told him about Tom's suspension. In order to avoid digressing, I left out the details. But Andr‚ clucked that the Ian's Images people had already had a fit when the police canceled the shoot at the Burrs' house. I told him I was desperate for work. If he could bridge me in to work part-time on the shoot, I promised to take only two dollars over minimum wage.
"Goldy! You worry how the models demean themselves, and then you do it to yourself," my old friend chided. "Yes, come on Friday." He tsked. "They have agreed to pay me double for that day. Which I am happy to take, since the cost of living in the mountains is so exorbitant."
"Double? For what?"
"The shoot has many problems. I have had much over- time. Ian Hood broke his lens. He already destroyed one of his cameras, but does he care? No. The police are at the Burrs' house. So the studio will move up the shooting at their third location, the place Hanna secured for them, the living room at the Homestead Museum. They will do the children's clothes there on Friday - if the police are through there. Leah will rent a Santa Claus and the children will sit in his lap. But will the little ones eat what we prepare? Who knows?" He exhaled in disgust. "The models complain the meals are too fattening. Rufus Driggle, the handyman? He likes the blond one, Yvonne. But Yvonne does not like Rufus. Someone put pickles on my crab cakes. But they always want my food. They are pigs."
For Friday, I penciled in Cater at H. museum on my calendar. Might give me a chance to snoop a little bit, see if Gerald Eliot had indeed met his untimely end there. "When should I show up?"
"Coffee break, nine o'clock? This kitchen is approved for commercial use, thank the good Lord. Yogurt, fruit, and we will make a sweet."
I hung up and out of habit called Marla. I checked the cobbler - strictly taboo for her, as she'd barely survived a heart attack the previous summer-and listened to her husky-voiced message: "I'm out being persecuted by the federal government. Leave a message, unless you think they'll trace this call and make your life a living hell, too."
Ah, yes. Starting this week, Marla was being audited by the IRS for last year's taxes. She had promised to stop by to fill me in on all the odious details.
My business line rang. I sent a quick appeal to the Almighty for a new client.
"Goldy, it's Sheila O'Connor." My heart froze: the coroner. Where were Tom and Arch? "Don't worry," she said, immediately sensing my concern. "I have a job for you, if you're interested. Lunch this Monday."
"What?
Sheila's laugh was earthy and much-practiced. Working with Sheila, Tom had always told me, you developed a sense of humor or you died. Coroner joke. "I'm serious," she went on. "Monday is always the worst day at the morgue. You've got work from the weekend, unidentified bodies piling up, it's a mess."
"Ah," I said, sympathetic. "I see." Not that I really wanted to. "I've been wanting to treat the staff." Was she trying a bit too hard to sound cheerful? Her words came out in a rush. "So I was wondering if you'd like to cater a lunch for us? Monday? Here at the morgue?"
Tom had always had enormous respect for Sheila O'Connor. Now I did, too, as she wanted to give me work. She must know about Tom's suspension without pay. "Sure," I said, "I'd love to."
"About fifteen dollars a person sound good? We have a soft drink machine, so it could be sandwiches, burritos, whatever you want. Plus dessert. The six of us usually eat around noon."
"Sounds perfect. Listen, Sheila, what's going on with Andy Fuller?"
"Fuller's a problem," she replied tersely. "He doesn't know how to build a real case. Yesterday was a perfect example."
"But... will he get Cameron Burr convicted?" She snorted. "Unlikely." She hesitated. Then she added, "I'm sorry about Tom," and hung up.
So was I. I amended my calendar for Monday, August twenty-fifth. Lunch for Six, Furman County Morgue. A catered coffee break at the site of a murder and a lunch at the morgue. Things were looking up.
6
The doorbell rang. Through the peephole Marla Korman's lovely, wide face grimaced grotesquely at me. I swung open the heavy door, then stared.
For the start of the IRS audit, Marla had apparently decided on a poverty-stricken look. Ordinarily, twinkling barrettes would have held her brown curls in place. Now her hair resembled an ostrich-feather duster. Not a dab of makeup covered her creamy complexion. Instead of the usual rhinestone-studded designer sweatsuit and sprinkling of precious-gem jewelry, she wore a drab gray housedress. The huge dress featured gleaming white buttons, an uneven midcalf hem, and a tear along the shoulder seam. She'd shunned her handmade Italian shoes and stuck her wide feet with their perfectly manicured toe-nails into hot-pink plastic thongs. Her bright eyes regarded me merrily.
"Marla - " I began.
She gestured for me to stop with empty-of-sapphires fingers. A telltale white line striped her tanned right forearm: no Rolex. I sniffed appraisingly and realized she wasn't wearing any deodorant.
She said, "So you didn't like the prosecutor."
"Don't."
"I'm starving and I want to hear all about it. I'm telling you, Goldy, I dated Andy Fuller. I didn't even jump on him."
"I appreciate your sharing that, Marla. So, how are the IRS guys?"
"Sons of bitches, they went to a Denver steakhouse. Made a point of telling me about an expensive five-star restaurant on the way, where they could drop me off. I the IRS only audited poor people." She swept down our hallway, headed for the kitchen. "They never did mention what a good person I was, doing fund-raising m my spare time.
